


Jazz Rhythms for Bassist and Soprano

by vifetoile



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon, Radiance - Catherynne M. Valente
Genre: Decopunk, F/M, One-Shot, Romance, fusion crossover, musicians au, science fiction AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:49:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27157531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vifetoile/pseuds/vifetoile
Summary: In a city of tinsel-dreams and midnight magic, a singer gimmicked up as Venus meets a white-haired bassist in search of an opening act. V/K
Relationships: Aino Minako/Kunzite
Kudos: 7





	Jazz Rhythms for Bassist and Soprano

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Starsea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starsea/gifts).



> I don't own Sailor Moon, nor do I own "Radiance" by Catherynne M. Valente (it's not necessary to have read the book to understand this fic, but DO read the book, it's amazing.)   
> This one goes out to Starsea.

Once upon the Moon there was a kingdom. A kingdom of white roses and silver filigree, a kingdom made of goddess’ mysteries and the fire at the heart of a diamond. There was a promise in this kingdom, a hope for the future, and this promise was a princess. She had clumsy feet and merry eyes and she was destined to continue the reign of peace in our star system, a reign of Serenity.

Of course, it’s only a fairytale.

The Moon is no mystery any longer. It’s not even a beckoning frontier. The Moon is a colony of Great Britain, and it’s home to thousands. Hundreds of thousands. It’s a satellite full of strangers.

But the lunar cities are at work. The Moon is the solar system’s hub of filmmaking, fashion, and scandal, and that keeps a lot of people busy! 

Maybe if humanity had stuck to battered ol’ Earth, filmmaking would have found its home in Bombay, or in Seoul, or maybe Hollywood. Or, likelier, all of them—film is a universal language.

But now? Now humanity has stretched itself out like a plump, long kitty-cat, all across the solar system. All the planets are occupied, and a smattering of asteroids too. Thanks to callowmilk from the callowhales of Venus, no rock is too desolate. A whole star system full of humans. Imagine it!

Of course, this requires output of an entire moon to provide film enough, art enough, dreams enough for everyone from the Tropic of Gemini on Mercury to the great bridge on Pluto-Charon. Dreams are as much a necessity as milk.

The capitol city of the Moon is Tithonus. Named for a man who got his wish for eternal life, and paid for it eternally. He aged out of his shape and out of his mind until he was stuck as a chirping grasshopper. _That_ is what fairytales will really get you, here on the Moon. This satellite loves to make movie magic, but eventually you have to take down the silver screen, stop the projector rolling, and sweep the bugs out into the alley.

So yes, maybe everyone on the Moon knows the fairy tale about the kingdom and its gentle princess, and how she and her world fell into ruin; but everyone knows that it’s nothing but a story.

And yet…

And yet.

They say that there were four guardians who stood beside the Princess, jewel-bright beside her glittering silver. Each guardian was born of a different planet, and her nature was shaped by the nature of her native planet. Just as Venus is the first star in the evening and the last in the morning, the first and last of these guardians was Venus, soldier of love. Love, which keeps the light on all night.

Let’s speak of love, and be sure to speak low. The thing about love is that you never know when exactly it will knock on your door and enter your life. It’s like a fairytale, that way.   


Welcome to the Teatro di Stelle, the Theater of Stars. Venus is singing onstage. Not really the entire _planet_ , I should say, nor the goddess. Just a girl. A girl who got dolled up to look like Venus.

This girl is curvy and short. It’s hard to discern much of her face behind that white mask. That mask must be her gimmick. Smart girl. Keep the mask on, and you’re the siren of the stars, anyone’s dream for the next hour and change. Take the mask off and you’re anonymous. Even a siren wants to make it home safely.

Not to mention, a gimmick can get you far in Tithonus, this city of glitter and illusion. A gimmick can keep you going for all of five minutes.

Her Empire-waist gown falls to her ankle. The layers of semi-sheer fabric flutter with her movements. They’re shades of orange-peel, autumn-leaf, violin-polish, summer-petal. Only Venus wears those colors and carries them off so well. Her hair looks sopping wet with a generous amount of glittering gel. And to _make sure_ that everyone knows her, someone (probably the girl herself) drew the symbol of Venus high on her left arm. Looks like lipstick.

She brings up the microphone as if she means to kiss it, and sings, “ _Aspettami, wait for me, close your eyes and you will see, I’m coming home, every sky in my heart will be blue… on the day I come back to you._ ”

She hums and shakes her head, and a red ribbon comes clear in her yellow tresses. Up there in the light, she looks like a honey-and-cantaloupe mojito, good enough to drink. Her smile is like a shot of rum: warm and sweet, but there’s something rough in it at the same time. She smiles and blows a kiss to the audience.

“You’re so sweet! Let’s end the note on a high night, shall we?” She giggles. “Whoops! Well, you know what I mean. Take it away, Tubio!” she sings to the pianist. “ _Flyyy me to the moon, and let me sing among the stars_ …” The last song of her set has her swaying double-time and tapping her feet, not resting until every patron in the dirty little joint is smiling, and she doesn’t rest, really, not even then.

She doesn’t rest until she’s ten steps off of the stage, and then she relaxes her shoulders. Then it’s ten steps to the stage again, for a last bow. Then ten more steps, and fifteen to the common dressing-room, and when she’s in front of the mirror with the nice lights around it, then she bends over double and starts to unbuckle her stiletto heels.

“Good job out there.”

“Yeah? Really?” Venus raises her head. She’s still wearing the white mask, and the plastered smile. It’s hard to tell the color of her eyes through that visor.

“You have a remarkable presence.”

“That so?” She sits up straighter and angles for a better look at the man. He’s tall, very tall. Luckily his shoulders are broad enough to balance the height. Hair so white and thick it looks like a wig—not at all uncommon among Lunarians—and his blue eyes are regarding her in minute detail.

He goes on, “You’ve got charisma, do you know that?”

She preens a little. “I’ve been told.” She glances at him sidelong, assessing him now by his clothes. His outfit is impeccably tailored. His jacket is dove-gray, printed with shapes of the deep earth: crystals, trilobites, spiraling shells. The fabric is stiff. Diamonds sparkle in his ears. But beneath all this starch, his silken shirt has a V-neck so deep it reaches his sternum, where a few white hairs peek out. Vulnerability in the midst of armor. An intriguing combination.

She draws her eyes away from the little pulse going at the base of his throat, in time to hear him say, “You need a little polish, and your music…”

“Polish? I beg your pardon,” she says.

He chortles, and reaches into his dove-grey jacket to draw out a card. “I should have said. I’m Kunzite, bassist and bandleader of the Sky Kings. Have you heard of us?”

Venus takes the card. It’s matte black, and stands in contrast to his mist-colored ensemble. “You’re that jazz act,” she says. “I saw you once, but that was when I first came to the Moon… say, didn’t you guys get into a fistfight with the Three Lights back in July?”

He suppresses an irritated growl. “You… heard correctly. We did have a slight misunderstanding (no thanks to Nephrite), but there’s nothing the matter now… water under the canal, you know how it is.”

“I heard the Three Lights were sent on the touring circuit of Jupiter.”

Kunzite shrugged. Venus eyed him. When she said nothing, he ventured on.

“The Sky Kings have got a standing gig currently at the Arcade de Juban. That’s a nice place—they’ve got a fountain, an indoor garden, a quality restaurant. I’m looking for a good opening act.”

“What brought you _here_?” Venus asks. The innocence has drained from her voice. In one nod she encompasses the Teatro di Stelle, the crumbling plaster, the stars glued onto the curtains, the crummy neighborhood. “Rumor of a goddess of love who rules the stage?” There’s that rum-rough smile again.

“Rumor of a girl who sang like only a lost soul can sing,” Kunzite folds his hands over his knee. “That caught my ear. A rumor of a girl with a real charisma. Do you know what ‘charisma’ means?”

“Of course,” Venus says. “It’s a spoonerism of ‘handsome’ and ‘charm,’ isn’t it?”

Kunzite stares. Then he shoves a hand over his mouth and _snorts_. The sight is so ridiculous it makes Venus laugh out loud. “What? Am I wrong?” she asks.

“It’s not what it means! I was just going to say, I can tell you over a late dinner, but then you elaborated…!”

“Are you asking me to dinner, Mr. Kunzite?”

“Yes. Please don’t call me Mr., it makes me feel a thousand years old. But anyone who can make me laugh like that…” He pulls his hand away and shakes his head briskly. “Let’s grab a bite. My treat… I’ll tell you about the Sky Kings…” he stares into the middle distance. “That’s not even what a _spoonerism_ means…”

“There’s a good soda fountain two blocks away,” Venus tells him. “I’ll meet you outside in five minutes, unless you think spoonerisms are really _that_ funny.”

He sobers up. “Meet you in five,” he tells her.

Five minutes later she meets him on the pavement. The Earth looms big and blue in the sky over Tithonus. From the west, east, and south come the sounds of parties. The northern quadrant is quiet, except for the occasional explosion, and the yells of “Action!” and “Cut!”

Someone over there is making movie-magic. But here, Kunzite awaits the goddess of Venus. 

She emerges looking quite like an ordinary girl. She’s wearing a sailor-style dress, which had come into vogue last spring. Like a proper sailor, the colors are white and navy blue. Her hair is still heavy with gel and glitter, and she still wears…

“The mask…” Kunzite gestures.

Venus shakes her head. “It’s my trademark.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

She smiles sweetly up at him. “No. But don’t take it personally,” she adds, “I don’t trust anyone except for my cat.”

“What kind of cat?” he asks. He proffers an arm but she declines to take it.

“A white cat who loves to shed on _all_ my costumes. Do you have any pets?” They fall into step together.

“I have six goldfish.”

“What are their names?”

“Antarctica, Africa, Eurasia, Australia, South America, and Bob.”

She laughs.

“And your cat? What’s his name?”

“I almost don’t want to tell you,” she says slowly, “because then you’ll know too much about me.”

“Hmm. Shall I guess, then? Is your cat named after some famous starlet? Dorothy, or Lillian? Claudette Colbert?”

She laughs again, and does take his arm, though she doesn’t press in. “No, no, and no,” she says. “It’s closer to home.” She scuffs her shoes in the moondust at their feet.

“Some Earthling name, then?”

“I am _not_ an Earthling, thank you very much! I was born in Victoria-on-the-Sea, Haverford, Venus,” she tells him, chin tilted up. “But,” she adds, “when I said close to home, I meant here. The Moon. I was always meant to come here.” 

He smiles. “You’ve got big dreams, I take it.”

“From here to Charon-Pluto and back.”

“Where did you train?”

“Well, I ran away from piano lessons and I was late to choir practice for six years. Then I decided to go solo.”

“Did you perform on Venus?”

“For a given definition of the word, yes. I did my best. Sometimes I was there to sing, sometimes I was there to charm; sometimes I was there to fill out the costume. Amazing costumes—you wouldn’t believe the things bored Venusians can do with feathers and sequins.”

“How old were you, performing solo?”

“Thirteen.” She shrugs at his surprised expression. “It was a start.”

“How old are you now?”

“Eighteen. I can show you my Stage Actors Guild card, my Vaudeville Union card, my…”

“I believe you. When did you come to the Moon?”

“I bought myself and the cat a ticket last May. A birthday present for myself.”

“And you don’t regret it?”

For that, she turns to him. They’ve reached the soda fountain, tiled in black and white. Its light falls on her face and casts her eyes into shadow. But she’s not wearing an artful stage-smile. Her mouth and shoulders are relaxed as she shrugs and says, “‘Kiss today goodbye, and point me towards tomorrow. Won’t regret, can’t forget what I did for love.’ You understand that, don’t you, Mr. Kunzite?”

“Don’t call me Mister,” he repeats. He opens the door and she glides on in ahead of him and sits at the bar.

“I’d prefer a booth,” he tells her. “What would you like to eat?”

“A large fries and a large vanilla milkshake.”

Kunzite sniffs. “Shouldn’t you be eating something a little healthier, to keep up your strength?”

“My joy is my strength. And my joy comes from milkshakes,” she tells him.

It’s amazing, the number of soda jerks that pop out of the chrome and tile to look at her and say hello. “Hi, Venus!” “Can I get you anything, Venus?” “Venus! How’s the Theater of Stars tonight?” Boys and girls alike, all with stars in their eyes. She chatters freely with them, asks after their families, flirts a little, and waves them on their way.

“Back to business,” grumbles Kunzite. “Miss Venus.”

“That’s me, yes?”

“Do you often work with live music?”

“I’ve got experience working with live music. I can also work with a record. I’m versatile,” she smiles at him again.

“What about performing in a group?”

“Well… if I liked the group, it wouldn’t be a problem at all.”

“I suppose I dare not even mention…”

She lifts her eyebrows.

“Do you ever sing backup?”

“You were right the first time, sir. You do not dare.”

“Ah.”

Their order arrives. Her fries are wrapped in paper and sprinkled liberally with salt, pepper, ginger, and dry mustard. There’s most of her milkshake in a parfait glass and the rest of the milkshake in a tall tin shaker.

For Kunzite: a vanilla soda with extra ice.

“Cheers,” she says, holding out her milkshake.

“Cheers.” He taps his soda to her glass. “Now, I believe I mentioned the word ‘charisma’ earlier. The origin of… of the word… the word… _what_ are you _doing_?”

She regards him as though he were a tremendous dunce. “I am dipping my French fries in my milkshake, and then eating them.” She is all dignity. “What does it _look_ like I’m doing?”

“That’s a desecration of salty and sweet.”

“It’s not a desecration, it’s an elevation! Try it, Kunzite!”

“No.”

“Try it.” She dips a fry into her milkshake and holds it out to him. “Try it. Try it.”

“No— _no_ —“

She manages to spear his face—the approximate area of his mouth—with the soaked fry. He takes her hand and guides it properly to his mouth.

He opens his mouth and takes in the fry, but doesn’t let go of her hand. Her fingers brush against his lips. The air between them changes: it’s charged and thick as the air of Venus. Neither one breathes.

Reluctantly he loosens his grip. But she keeps her hand by his face.

“Hold on,” she says, and grabs a napkin. She daubs at his face until all the milkshake residue is gone. Her strokes are brisk, until the last, the very last, when she slowly wipes the napkin across his jawline. Then she tilts his jaw up so he looks her in the eyes, through the mask.

“It’s good, isn’t it?”

He smiles and can’t help licking his lips. “It is. You were right, Miss Venus.”

“Now. Charisma, you were saying?” She settles back in the booth.

“If you’re of a Catholic persuasion… Are you?”

“How can you ask me that? After the French fry?”

“Good point. ‘Charism’ is a Greek word, the word for a gift from God. An ability beyond the common, used in service of a higher good.”

“Ooh, la la. You’re saying I’ve got that?”

“Well, the word’s been watered down over the years. Now those who are ‘charismatic’ are those who command attention, those who speak well. Or who charm.”

“Hmm, hmm, the charisms are dwindling as we speak.” She counts down on her fingers. “Gift of God, commanding attention, or _charming_.” 

“You do all these things.”

“I charm you, do I?”

“If you didn’t, Miss Venus, we would not be sitting here discussing our business ventures. All eyes are on you when you’re on stage—you know that, right?”

“I’ve been told.”

“That’s a remarkable quality. I’d like to help you cultivate it.”

“Mmm.” She took a sip of her milkshake. A long, slurping sip. “I’m delighted by your attention, sir, but I’ve spotted a couple of problems.”

Kunzite furrowed his alabaster brow, and his hands opened and clasped again. Silently asking for an elaboration.

“One is, I think I’d much rather date you than try to work with you.”

That takes him off-guard. But he realizes he likes her honesty. He smiles and opens his hands again. “I can’t argue with that. Especially not after the French fry.” He pauses. “ _Are_ you open to dating?”

She smiles. “Oh, I’m unattached.” Under the table, her foot begins to jiggle and tap like mad. “Two, I certainly am one of those charisms afflicted by a higher power.”

“Er… you _have_ a charism, and ‘afflicted’ isn’t really the right word.”

“I have a calling. _And_ a charism. I didn’t just come to the moon to show off my legs and sing a little ditty. I’m waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“More like for who.”

“For whom.”

“Whatever. Do you ever feel like a cicada, Kunzite? Waiting in the ground, dormant, in the long seven years before you awaken to your destiny?”

“Are you saying you’re a cicada?”

“I came to Grasshopper City, didn’t I?” She shrugs.

“For whom are you waiting?”

She sits back and looks out the window, onto a narrow street and the blooming light of streetlamps. “They’ll find their way to the Moon. I’ll know them once I see them. But it won’t do to exactly try to picture them before the time is right. I dream about them, though. I think one is at Oxblood Studios already, splicing film together oh-so-neatly. I think one just arrived, fresh off the rocket from Mars. And… and…” she stops herself and smiles brightly at Kunzite. “I’ll know them when I meet them.”

“So you’re waiting for your backup band to materialize,” he says drily.

“Call it what you like.” She shrugs. Her airs and graces are already back in place. “I don’t expect most folks to understand. My mother certainly didn’t.”

“It’s her loss,” he says firmly.

Venus shifts in her seat. Her smile fades, but of course behind the mask it’s hard for him to exactly read her expression.

When she remains silent, he took initiative and said, “I _do_ believe in destiny, you know.”

“Really?”

“The very existence of the Sky Kings proves something. It’s only by the thinnest thread of chance—a lost connection at Susano’o Station, one absentminded mutual friend, and once an exhibit about rocks—that’s all that brought us together. That’s all! And the music we make together… it is a gift. It brings a sense of joy, and a sense of purpose.”

Venus nods.

“So I understand a little of what you mean by ‘destiny.’”

“Kunzite… have some milkshake.” She holds out the tin shaker with a half-cup of milkshake sitting at the bottom.

“Just a little, thank you,” he says. He takes a drink, and Venus takes the opportunity to admire how his Adam’s apple bobs, and the pulse at the base of his throat, and the little white hairs curling at the base of his V-neck…

He puts down the tin and draws a paper napkin to him. “Here’s the number of our agent,” he says, scribbling. “Beryllia Metaldottir. Tell her Kunzite liked your style.”

“Are you saying goodnight?”

“No, I’m just making sure to wrap up business, so I can enjoy myself the rest of the evening.”

Venus smiles and tucks the napkin into her purse. “What’s next for your group?” She asks.

“The Arcade de Juban is a good gig. The audience is always electric. We’re hoping to branch out to the Enigma Club, maybe even the Joglar. Plus, we’re in the early stages of writing a new album.”

They talk for a long time, about music and performance, about scandals of strangers and the dreams that they cherished. The clock begins to chime: Venus sits up and looks around afresh. One of the staff is mopping the floor; the girl behind the counter is yawning. It’s midnight and they are the only two customers.

“It’s closing time!” Venus grabs her purse.

“Are you going to turn into a pumpkin?” Kunzite asks, smiling. He also stands up.

“I lost track of time… Artemis will be so worried.”

“Is Artemis the cat?”

Venus freezes in the middle of putting on her jacket. Then she smiles. “Yes, that’s the name of my cat. He’s a little worrywart.”

“And here I thought you didn’t trust me.”

“I didn’t. But you can know Artemis’ name… thank you,” she said when he holds the door open for him.

“I think I understand. You’ve dreamed of the Moon all your life, haven’t you?”

“I have.” They fall into step together. “But to be perfectly honest, Artemis named himself. He has more dignity than you would believe. This way.”

She takes his hand. Each feels a little shock at the contact. Venus pulls him underneath an awning.

“Kunzite,” she says, “Close your eyes.”

“Oh? Now whose trust is on the line here?” he asks.

“C’mon, just close your eyes for a hairsbreadth, that’s all.”

He smiles wryly and, finally, obeys. Unseen by him, Venus slips her mask up to the crown of her head. She stands on tiptoe—then curses when she isn’t high up enough.

“What is it?” Kunzite asks, eyes still closed.

“Bend down,” she commands. A hand on his shoulder brings him down to her level… if she’s on tippy-toes. “You’re too tall,” she mutters, and when he’s in the middle of a chuckle she kisses him. She kisses him with a _will_ , taking his smile and laugh and magnifying it with one press of her lips, then another, making it her own, making _him_ her own.

Just when she thinks he’s taking this a little too meekly, he nips her bottom lip with his teeth, daring her to go a little further. Well, she’s never one to back down from a dare.

She deepens the kiss, and the rapturous sensation of it almost sends her off her tippy-toes, but he cradles her head in one large hand, keeping her steady, and for a moment she thinks, he must play his instrument with this kind of care, with this passion. She presses into him, delighting in the feel of her breasts against his broad chest. Her hand circles his neck, and she feels his pulse beating, rapid and strong because of her, because of the little groan he makes when he takes in her tongue. It feels so right, so terribly, wonderfully right. It feels like they’ve done this a thousand times before—his other arm circles her waist—it feels like a new planet they can explore together—it feels like the fire in the heart of a diamond.

It’s music, they’re filling each other up with music, and it feels so right.

After a long, delicious time, Venus presses away from Kunzite. When he opens his eyes her mask is already back in place. But now—now he can see her eyes a little better. They’re shining brightly, and they’re blue.

She’s waiting for him to say something.

“May I come see you tomorrow night?” he asks.

“I would like that,” she says. Then she giggles, “I would like that _very much_ , but I’m trying to be mysterious. Come see me and bring your band, OK?”

“I will. Do you want an escort to your building?”

“So formal,” she teases. “But I would, yes please n’ thank you.”

He tilts his head to the side and says nothing, but in his heart he thinks, you don’t have to put on a big act for me. It’s alright. I like you very well, with or without the mask.

They leave leave the sheltered awning, both aglow. They don’t hold hands but they brush against each other in little sparkles of contact and connection. Let’s lift the camera up, and the crane shot lifts so that these two individuals fade into archetypes: a tall boy and a pretty girl walking down the street together, in the middle of midnight, on the Moon.

Maybe they’re flirting, and talking about meeting bandmates and having a jam session; maybe they’ve walked these avenues before, a thousand thousand years ago, when the Moon was no sundry town of cardboard dreams, but a holy site to be guarded with heart’s blood. Maybe they’re new in love, or maybe it’s an old love that only needs a little polish and tuning to fill the air with music once more.

Perk up your ear: listen. Is the story starting again? Do you hear it?

Is it possible, do you think—a girl climbs the steps leading to her apartment building door, and takes advantage of the height to kiss the boy who escorted her home—is it possible that this is the _one, two, one two three four_ before the symphony of the Silver Millennium begins again?

Maybe not. Maybe it’s just the everyday fairytale of finding love after midnight.

But maybe it’s so. Venus gives him one last smile, and promises to see him tomorrow, and slips behind the apartment door. Maybe this is how the world begins again.


End file.
